Chapter Text
Mariner’s personal log, stardate 60954.7. The Cerritos has been assigned to Starbase 80, to act as a test-bed for new technology being developed by the Multiverse Task Force. We’re going to take on upgrades to our shields and warp engines, after which we’ll supposedly be resistant to what T’Lyn calls “anomalous distortions of the higher-dimensional probability manifold.” That’s “quantum fissures” to the rest of us. In theory, we could fly right through a fissure or the quantum portal itself, and not even notice. Or survive a repeat performance of all the weirdness we had to go through to create the quantum portal in the first place.
Reality anchors. Cool. If they work in practice.
Before that happens, though, T’Lyn and I have other business to attend to. Once again, we’re visiting Starbase 80 in the Christmas season, and this time my parents have lots to celebrate and plenty of time to set things up. We’re finally going to have the big wedding reception we didn’t get on Vulcan.
Big? Huge. Enormous. Mom and Dad have been planning this for months, and invitations have been going out all over two quadrants.
T’Lyn, of course, says she finds it “illogical” to throw a party to celebrate a wedding, especially months after the wedding itself. Vulcans just don’t do this sort of thing. I notice she isn’t putting up much resistance, though. Behind her stoic reserve, I think she’s actually looking forward to it.
My personal project is going to be to get her to down at least one chocolate martini.
Stardate 60955.6
Starbase 80
Mariner and T’Lyn stood at the head of a receiving line, both of them resplendent in their white dress uniforms, full lieutenant’s pips polished to a shine at their collars. Mariner had been prevailed upon to wear the ribbons for the two decorations she hadn’t managed to evade in the course of her career: the Star Cross for her actions during the Second Battle of Deep Space Nine, and the Christopher Pike Medal of Valor for saving the mission on Terra and bringing that world’s Roman Empire into friendly contact with the Federation. T’Lyn wore no decorations, since most of her decades of service had been in the Vulcan fleet, and the Expeditionary Group didn’t go in for medals. Her Vulcan dignity did more than enough to make up for the lack.
The receiving line was a long and colorful chain of Starfleet uniforms in a dozen different styles, salted with a few civilians in formal evening wear.
Admiral and Commodore Freeman had made all the arrangements for the reception, and now presided over the result. The entire Cerritos complement had been invited, of course, and all but a skeleton crew had come. Many Starbase 80 officers and personnel as well, even a few of the Acamarians. Several of the starships assigned to the Multiverse Task Force sent officers, including Captain William Boimler of the Anaximander, his variant of Mariner, and a few leftover Harry Kims. Quimp and his wife Tarilka were there, and Petra Aberdeen, and Jennifer Sh’reyan had managed to get leave from the Manitoba. A Klingon bird-of-prey had brought Captain Ma’ah, not to mention his tactical officer and on-again-off-again lover K’Elarra. There was a small but prominent Vulcan contingent, led by T’Lyn’s father Sevek and her kinsman Captain Sokel.
T'Lyn suspected their belated wedding reception would count as one of the biggest Starfleet social events of the year. Perhaps it would make up for Cerritos being repeatedly snubbed at the annual Command Conference.
As each guest appeared before her, T’Lyn gave a grave nod. Occasionally, for particularly prominent guests, she would bring a hand up in the ta’al and say a few words. She shook no hands, but no one expected that of her, knowing the Vulcan custom.
Mariner, at the head of the line, shook hands until her fingers were sore with fatigue. She smiled and smiled, and it seemed to be a genuine smile. She greeted each guest warmly by name, without needing introductions for most of them.
T’Lyn watched her consort unobtrusively. Had she been given to human metaphor, she would have said Beckett was shining, radiating a sheer force of personality to which every guest responded.
Beckett has been associated with Starfleet her entire life, T’Lyn thought privately. In thirty-three years, is this the first time she has ever been at the center of such a social occasion, accepted and admired by all?
Her cynicism is a well-practiced defense mechanism, but tonight she needs no defenses. For once, she can simply bask in the affirmation of her peers. I can sense an impulse to flee and distance herself from all of this, but she has it well under control.
T’Lyn would have been reluctant to admit to it, but she was feeling a distinct sensation of pride in her consort.
Distracted for the moment by her thoughts, she nodded to accept the greeting of an Andorian captain, and then turned to the two humans at the tail end of the receiving line.
One was an athletic human woman, relatively young, wearing a gold uniform and lieutenant commander’s pips. Her skin was a warm tawny shade, her eyes a close match, her hair a well-disciplined mass of tight golden-brown curls. The other . . .
T’Lyn could not prevent her eyes widening in momentary surprise. “Admiral Picard,” she said, giving him the ta’al. “I am honored.”
Jean-Luc Picard seemed older than the most recent images T’Lyn had seen of him, as if the strain of overseeing the Romulan evacuation had taken its toll on once-legendary drive and fortitude. Of course, the man was nearly eighty years old, and even with the benefit of late-twenty-fourth-century medicine he was no longer young.
At least his smile was warm and friendly as he returned the ta’al with easy skill. “Lieutenant T’Lyn. The honor is entirely mine. May I introduce my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Raffaela Musiker?”
“We come to serve,” said Musiker, in flawless Vulcan.
“Your service honors us,” said T’Lyn. She turned, and found Mariner already standing at her shoulder, all her force of personality suddenly leashed and shrouded as she calmly assessed the admiral.
“Lieutenant Mariner,” said Picard, extending his hand to her without an ounce of reserve.
She hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, before taking it in a firm grasp. “Admiral. I must admit, I had no idea you were going to be here.”
Picard’s smile broadened a fraction. “We were in the neighborhood . . . and I wanted to have a look at you, Lieutenant. I have not forgotten the time you and your mother spent aboard Enterprise, when you were young.”
Mariner’s smile emerged once more, and once again it was genuine, although T’Lyn could sense a certain well-concealed suspicion in her mind. “Well, sir, you’re more than welcome. Commander Musiker, was it?”
Musiker grinned and shook Mariner’s hand. “You got it.”
“You and I need to link up later this evening, if you’re going to be able to stick around for a few hours.” Mariner cocked her head, indicating the admiral, and grinned. “I bet we can swap some great stories about what it’s like to work for this one.”
“In fact, Lieutenant, I had hoped to steal some of your time this evening,” said Picard. “May I come search you and your wife out, once you’ve dealt with your social obligations?”
That trace of suspicion grew stronger, but Mariner only said, “Of course, Admiral.”
“Splendid.”
Picard and his aide turned away, leaving Mariner and T’Lyn free to start the festivities proper, but for a long moment Mariner didn’t move.
“What disturbs you, ashayam?” T’Lyn asked.
“I lived on the Enterprise-D for three years under that man’s command,” Mariner said, very quietly. “Do you know how many times Captain Picard ever spoke to me, or even acknowledged my existence?”
T’Lyn made an inquiring hmm.
“Zero. None whatsoever.” Mariner glanced at her wife, a slight frown on her face. “There is no way one of Starfleet’s leading admirals, currently up to his eyebrows trying to save the entire Romulan people from disaster, ‘just happened to be in the neighborhood.’ Besides, look at him now.”
T’Lyn looked after Picard, saw him greeting and speaking to Admiral and Commodore Freeman. “What is it?”
“Mom and Dad are hiding it well, but they’re surprised to see him. They didn’t know he was coming, either. Something weird is going on here.”
“The admiral appears to wish to speak with us,” said T’Lyn. “It would be logical to wait patiently, and trust he will make his intentions clear.”
“I suppose.” Mariner sighed. “I was really hoping to just have fun tonight.”
On Mariner’s signal, Alonzo Freeman exercised his quarterdeck voice, calling everyone to find their seats. Given Starfleet discipline, it didn’t take long for all the guests to distribute themselves among the tables set about the perimeter of the hall. Once the crowd quieted down, Mariner and T’Lyn made short speeches to thank everyone for coming. Then they endured toasts and short speeches by Admiral Freeman, Captain Ransom, and Captain Sokel.
Mariner was doing her best to ignore the fact that Admiral Picard was sitting toward the back of the hall. It was difficult. Word had gotten around he was there, and she could see the subtle movement of the crowd as people kept glancing in his direction. To his credit, he was trying to be unobtrusive, but it was a lost cause.
Okay, babe, she thought to T’Lyn, while she appeared to listen to Captain Sokel’s remarks. We need to punch this up a bit. Are you ready?
Of course, said T’Lyn, suppressing a momentary rush of mischievous excitement. They were about to subvert expectations. Especially those of the Vulcan contingent.
Once Captain Sokel finished his comments, Alonzo Freeman rose once more, his hands raised for attention. “Friends, for those of you who aren’t familiar with human marriage customs, it’s at this point in the event the happy couple are expected to step out onto the dance floor to the sound of one of their favorite tunes. So, without further ado . . .”
The lights dimmed. Mariner and T’Lyn rose from their seats and moved out onto the dance floor under the cover of shadows.
Soft music from the jazz band, a piano melody line with a bit of percussion to emphasize the beat. A spotlight picked out Carol Freeman, standing in front of the band with a microphone in her hand and a brilliant smile on her face. A second light stabbed down in the exact center of the dance floor, revealing Mariner and T’Lyn poised there, frozen as if in mid-step and watching each other expectantly.
The music hit a down-beat, and Commodore Freeman began singing at a rather energetic tempo.
Mariner and T’Lyn surged into motion, and a wave of widened eyes and murmured comment swept the audience.
They had been practicing.
No slow, awkward shuffle-in-place for them. They stepped proudly toward each other, touched hands to promenade, exchanged intense glances, came together to dance close for a few steps, then T’Lyn spun away under Mariner’s outstretched arm.
Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
And let me see what spring is like
On a-Jupiter and Mars . . .
Weeks ago, Mariner had decided if she and her wife were going to be the center of Starfleet’s attention for a few minutes, they were damn well going to own the moment.
T’Lyn swept close, the back of one hand brushing down Mariner’s cheek in a quick caress. Then they faced one another, Mariner’s hands on T’Lyn’s waist, T’Lyn’s on Mariner’s shoulders, as they ran through a series of steps that rotated through a full circle before they broke contact once more.
It helped that very few people knew how good Mariner could be on a dance floor. Much less how good T’Lyn could be on a dance floor. Human formal dancing wasn’t a common accomplishment for Vulcans, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be astonishingly graceful at it. T'Lyn had mastered the art, just as she tended to master anything that captured her focused attention for long.
Mariner wanted to grin like an idiot, it was working so well, but she restrained herself and kept to a gentle smile, concentrating on absolute precision in footwork and timing. As T’Lyn swept by on the next measure of the music, she glimpsed just the tiniest little smirk on the Vulcan’s face, belying her usual stoicism. The sight warmed her, down to her toes.
Fill my heart with song
And let me sing forevermore
You are all I long for
All I worship and adore
In other words, please be true
In other words, I love you . . .
The song came to its jaunty end, Mariner and T’Lyn stepping in opposite directions for a moment, only to turn about, lock eyes, and point to each other on the last I – love – you!
As one, the guests rose with a roar of applause and cheering. Even the Vulcans rose with the rest, perhaps not applauding, but looking more bemused than disapproving.
Ninety minutes later, Mariner caught Raffaela Musiker’s eye from across the room, then ducked out a side hallway leading to a quiet alcove. The lights were low, but a viewport let in the light of ten thousand stars. T’Lyn was already there, sitting behind a low table. The table had two glasses sitting on it, one with Saurian brandy for Mariner.
The other glass contained room-temperature water for T’Lyn. She’d had the chocolate martini earlier, and that was her limit.
They didn’t have to wait long. “Good evening,” came the smooth voice with its Received Pronunciation accent, and Admiral Picard stood in the doorway.
“Please, Admiral, join us,” said Mariner. “Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you, no.” Picard folded himself into a chair across from the two women. “A very fine occasion. I trust married life has been treating you well?”
“It has been satisfactory,” said T’Lyn, her stoic mask firmly in place.
Picard nodded and sat in silence for a few moments.
Almost at once, Mariner felt the need to puncture the silence, to demand just what the admiral was playing at, but something prompted her to sit still and wait. Perhaps it was T’Lyn’s presence in the back of her mind.
After a time, Picard stirred. “You will have reasoned I am not here to pay a simple social call.”
Mariner nodded. “That was obvious, sir.”
“Indeed. I confess I have been debating with myself as to how much I should say. How much I can say.” He hesitated for a moment. “However, I suppose I must begin with this. Lieutenant Mariner, I apologize for losing track of your progress, some time ago. I know you had difficulty for several years. I cannot help but think if I had paid stricter attention, I might have been able to help you avoid some of that. Perhaps you would have had your captaincy by now.”
Mariner wasn’t sure what she had expected, but that wasn’t on the list of possibilities. “Sir . . . permission to speak freely?”
Picard smirked. “As I understand it, you rarely require such permission. But go ahead.”
“I had no idea you knew I existed. Sir.”
“Of course I knew,” he said, his eyebrows rising with surprise. “Your mother was one of my best tactical officers. She made a point of keeping her family and her professional life separate, but I occasionally heard about you from her.”
“I doubt it was good news.”
“On the contrary. Your mother may not have been open about her feelings with you, but to me she never expressed anything but pride in your accomplishments.” Picard shrugged. “During that time of my life, I was notoriously ill at ease with children. Will Riker was your mother’s friend, and he had become something of a mentor for you, so I considered you were in good hands and left it at that.”
Mariner shook her head. “Honestly, sir, I can’t fault you for it. You were commanding the Federation flagship. No one could expect you to take a personal interest in every teenage kid living in crew quarters.”
“Aside from Wesley Crusher,” murmured T’Lyn.
Mariner cocked an eyebrow at her in mild exasperation. “Come on, babe, Wes was a special case. The admiral had a long-standing relationship with the Crushers . . . and let’s face it, the kid was brilliant.”
“That he was,” said Picard. “Hopefully he still is, wherever he has gone.”
“Admiral, you have nothing to apologize for,” said Mariner. “I was my own responsibility . . . and I’m stubborn. Sometimes I have to be hit over the head with a clue before I get myself straightened out.”
Picard chuckled. “You are hardly the only officer who suffers that malady. I’ve been accused of it myself.”
“What, you? Perish the thought. At any rate, things are starting to work out for me after all.”
“I can see that. I have reviewed your personnel record, Lieutenant. Including the classified portions.” Picard smiled. “Over the past two years in particular – ever since the incident with Locarno – your career and your life appear to have resumed an upward course commensurate with your talents.”
“I’ve had a lot of help,” said Mariner, glancing aside at T’Lyn.
“No doubt.” Picard grew serious, staring intently at Mariner. “I am quite certain you are fit for command, and when – not if, but when – command comes to you, I have no doubt you will carry out your duties honorably and in full.”
Mariner was silent, disturbed by the admiral’s sudden intensity.
That’s not an omen. Or if it is . . . I had better not tell him I have commanded a starship. In a full fleet engagement, no less. He won’t have seen that in my personnel record. It was part of one of Q’s stupid games, anyway, so it doesn’t count.
“Well,” said Picard. “I have taken up enough of your time, on an evening when you and your wife should be enjoying the company of your friends. I have something for you. Consider it a wedding gift, if you like.”
Mariner exchanged an uneasy glance with T’Lyn.
Picard reached into a pocket and withdrew . . . a data chip. He leaned across the table, holding it out to Mariner.
Slowly, she took and examined it. A perfectly ordinary data chip. No label, other than a serial number on the back and a tiny letter P embossed in the lower-right corner on the front. “What is this?” she asked.
“Something I most likely ought not be giving you,” said Picard. “Tuck it away, keep it with you at all times. Don’t read it unless it becomes obvious you must. Consider it . . . an ace in the hole.”
“Okay.” Mariner shook her head, confused, but she didn’t give the chip back. “Thank you, sir.”
“Very good.” Picard rose, and the two women followed suit. “I’ll be on my way. Thank you for allowing me to interrupt your reception.”
Then he was gone, and Mariner and T’Lyn were left to stare at each other and wonder.